The Last Forsworn
by Jake Flood
Summary: Imprisoned within Cidhna Mine is Joslyn Elbert. Bitterly hateful of the Nords that occupy her rightful home, she seeks to resurrect her once great order, to rain destruction down on the Reach and bring vengeance to the door of he who destroyed her hopes: the Dragonborn. This is the short and violent tale of the last Forsworn. Rated M for violence/language/themes.
1. Treachery and Hope

_~A/N: this story exists within the same universe as my other Skyrim stories, and takes place in the time period following the events of 'Adventures with the Dragonborn.' It's not technically necessary to read that (overly lengthy) story, but if you're interested in the events referred to here, then you can. Thanks for reading.~_

* * *

News takes a long time to filter down to Cidhna Mine. The year had almost turned before Joslyn Elbert heard about what had happened at Helgen. The Dragonborn, along with a small army of friends, had crushed a Thalmor plot to open a gate to Oblivion in the ruined town. One of the guards claimed that the Dragonborn had leapt through into Oblivion itself and shut the gate from the other side, trapping himself within. Another was sure that the Dragonborn was still alive, and claimed that he'd been seen in Markarth after the battle. Yet another was positive that there had been no gate, and probably no Thalmor; the entire story a concoction, too ludicrous to be believed.

Whatever version was closest to the truth, Joslyn seethed at the news. The Dragonborn, yet at large! _Still he stalks this land, cutting down the righteous_, she thought, _yet to meet his judgement_. After what he'd done to the Forsworn, she was never going to treat him as a hero like the rest of Skyrim did. Not after he'd killed Madanach after their escape from the very mine in which she languished. Not after he'd pretended to be sympathetic to their cause only to decimate their leaders. Not after he'd slaughtered most of their number across the Reach, and at the battle of Druadach Redoubt.

Joslyn didn't know how many Forsworn remained. Remnants of a once-glorious tribe, destroyed by that hate-spewing Breton; the Dragonborn. The guards told her there were none left, taunted her with tales of the Reach being returned truly to the Nords, old Forsworn outposts being claimed by common bandits and worse; Imperial Legionnaires. Maybe they were just that: taunts. She hoped so. Because if they were right, then she was the last true Forsworn.

* * *

There were others inside Cidhna Mine, of course. _Weaklings and cowards_, she sneered, _pathetic snivelling wretches. The Forsworn are stronger without them_. Propped up against the rock wall of the main cavern of the Mine, she mentally catalogued them.

None of those who had been imprisoned with Madanach and the Dragonborn remained. All of them had escaped, then been cut down by that cursed hero soon after. In their place were a mix of common criminals and those with enemies in high places.

The newest prisoner was Shadbo gra-Magul, the scrawniest orc Joslyn had ever seen, and the only other female in the Mine. She'd been caught stealing ore from the blacksmith, coincidentally run by another female orc; Ghorza gra-Bagol. Shadbo might have been scrawny, but she mined more silver than any of the others, and could handle herself in a fight. She also swore more than any of the others put together.

Hodling was a big Nord, his hair and beard a shaggy brown, his knuckles covered in scabs, his face and body and permanent mass of sores and bruises. He'd been the first thrown into the Mine after Madanach's escape, for murder. The others, Joslyn included, stayed away from him. He refused to mine ore, and was consequently beaten by the guards almost daily. It was unlikely he was ever going to get out.

Brandr was another Nord. _Too many Nords_, thought Joslyn, _wallowing in their own filth, laying bastard claims to the lands of others._ Brandr had a nose that looked like it had been broken. In fact, Joslyn knew it was broken, as she'd done it herself after he'd tried to rape her. The next time he was going to get a shiv in the gut.

Astien and Varnand were both of Reachman descent and, in Joslyn's view, should have been committed members of the Forsworn. Instead, they kept mostly to themselves, trying to serve out their time as quickly and quietly as possible. An unlikely prospect, as they'd both been turned in as Forsworn agents by someone high up in the Jarl's court, bundled into the Mine by someone who wanted them out of the way. Despite that, they had proved unmoved by Joslyn's talk of actually joining the Forsworn. She made a point of terrorising them whenever she got the chance.

The last was Ibarna, a Dunmer who was a member of the Thieves Guild, caught ransacking the house of a Markarth noble. Ibarna clearly hadn't been planning on staying in the Mine long, but as the weeks dragged on and his release did not come, his cockiness began to erode away. He was still the best source for anything one wanted, though. Skooma and alcohol were the main drawcards. Joslyn had no idea how Ibarna was bribing the guards, but he kept it up somehow.

All seven of them knew how Madanach and the thrice-damned Dragonborn had escaped. A secret passage, near what had been the Forsworn leader's private quarters, leading into the Dwemer ruins under Markarth. But the barred door that led to that area of the Mine had been bolted shut, the passageway to the ruins blocked with a constructed rockfall. Even lingering too close to the door would bring the guards down to mete out a beating.

The guards were worse than ever. They'd failed in their task; their most prized prisoners had escaped. They went overboard to make sure that it would not happen again. Joslyn still thought about escaping a great deal, but was not overly concerned about it. She knew that her sentence was almost up. They hadn't been able to prove anything other than theft. Not the murders, not the assaults. She hadn't even been in Forsworn armour when they'd caught her, so they couldn't pin that on her either. She would be out soon.

* * *

There were no days or nights in Cidhna Mine. The only way to tell time was when the guard-shift changed. The torches in the Mine always burned. Joslyn had just finished stacking a load of silver for shipping out of the Mine when Ibarna approached her, sniffing nervously and flexing his hands. He'd been dipping into his own supply again.

"Hey," he said. He reached out a hand towards her, then thought better of it. A shiver ran down his thin body, his grey skin shaking with tremors. "Brandr's comin' after you," he said.

Joslyn shrugged. She was used to it. She was young, female, and reasonably attractive. In a prison, surrounded mostly by men, it was bound to happen.

"He'll 'ave Hodling with 'im this time," added Ibarna. That got Joslyn's attention. Brandr, she could handle, but that huge Nord, despite his regular beatings, was a formidable opponent. She didn't think she could take both of them at once. This would be, of course, what they would count on. _Both Nords_, she thought, _they'll get what's coming to them. I'll get to them before they get to me_. She stopped, and had a better idea. It wouldn't do to lengthen her sentence.

"I'll handle it," she said to Ibarna. She left him alone with his drug habit and found a spot against the wall in the main cavern, in the direct line of sight of the guard on duty. A blonde Nord brute with a knotted beard, overblown with importance. His Silver-Blood-issued armour shone in the torchlight. _Usurping scum_. But she'd make good use of him before his shift was through.

She closed her left fist around the shaft of a pickaxe and sat down. She kept her right hand pressed against the side of her body, working down the shiv she kept up her sleeve. She smiled up at the guard. He did not return it. She sat and waited. Sleep is a rare commodity in Cidhna Mine. Joslyn did not sleep often or well, but then neither did any of the prisoners. To sleep was to leave oneself open, to make oneself vulnerable.

But Brandr and Hodling did not come. Neither of the Nords made an appearance in the main cavern all through that guard's watch. The others moved back and forth, engaged in routines of their own devising, trying to stay sane. And failing, mostly. Against her own volition, Joslyn fell into a doze.

* * *

When she awoke she found the visage of Brandr looking down at her. _Shit_. Next to him was Hodling, grinning with broken and missing teeth. _Fuck_. She fumbled for her pickaxe and tried to get a grip on her shiv, but the pair came closer with every moment, leering in anticipation. A shout came from the guard platform, a voice that Joslyn recognised as Urzoga gra-Shugurz, the captain of the Mine's guards.

"Joslyn!" yelled Urzoga. Brandr and Holding jerked away, quick to show that they had not been up to any wrongdoing. Joslyn sneered at them as she eased onto her feet, meeting the orc captain's eyes. "You're in luck!" continued Urzoga. "Your sentence is up, you're getting out!"

Joslyn's sneer turned into a grin. _Finally!_ To be able to walk the Reach as a free woman, to be able to return to the work of the Forsworn was a feeling better than any hit of skooma. Urzoga lowered the ladder down, allowing Joslyn to climb up towards her freedom. The other prisoners gathered; Brandr and Hodling still trying to look innocent, Ibarna still sniffing and patting his pockets. Astien and Varnand, _the traitors_, barely able to contain their relief. Shadbo, glancing rapidly at the other prisoners, assessing the new balance of power.

"Don't think this is the last you'll see of me," spat Joslyn. "All who have wronged me will be brought low, all who have—"

She was cut off by Urzoga grabbing the back of her neck and turning her around. "Come on," growled the orc. "Jarl wants you out of town as soon as possible."

_Fine. All the better_. Joslyn gave into the orc's pushing, letting her lead her up and out of the mine. _When I return, this Mine will run slick with blood_.

* * *

Urzoga bundled Joslyn out of Markarth herself. The hour was late, Masser and Secunda lighting their path through the city of stone. Nobody was around. Joslyn was sure her release had been planned that way. _A smart move, there's no knowing what I'd do let loose in this city,_ she thought.

When they reached the dwarven doors that marked the exit, Urzoga eased them open, stepping back to allow Joslyn through. The recently released prisoner looked back at the orc.

"What about my things?" she asked. Her clothes, her toothed axe, her alchemy ingredients. All taken when she'd been thrown in the Mine.

Urzoga snorted. "Don't push it," she said. "Get goin'. Any guard sees your filthy face again they'll smash it open." She leaned closer. "I'd be happy to do the job myself right now, but the High Queen's puttin' pressure on the Jarl. Count yourself lucky." She shoved Joslyn through the gap between the doors.

* * *

Outside the city, Joslyn squinted around, getting her first good look at the outside world in several months. The town guards on duty said nothing to her, but she could tell they were looking her up and down. She sneered in their direction, pulled the ragged prison-issue robes she wore tighter around her, and set off into the Reach.

She followed the path down the hill, between Left-Hand Mine and Salvius Farm, coming down to the bridge, the path splitting in two directions. One; across the bridge and east. Two; along the river and north. But her decision-making process was cut short, as three Markarth guards stood clustered at the junction.

At seeing her approach, they stopped their conversation and spread into a line, drawing their swords.

"Such a shame," said the first guard, shaking his head dramatically.

"To survive the horrors of Cidhna Mine," continued the second.

"Only to be killed in an escape attempt," finished the third.

Joslyn looked from one of them to the next, analysing her options. An unarmed Forsworn in rags against three armed guards. _Not the best odds in the world, but when have the Forsworn ever given a damn for the odds?_

"What are you three?" she asked them, "A fucking performing trio?"

The guards looked at each other, perhaps realising the overdramatic nature of their spiel. Joslyn used the moment to sprint to her right and crash into the water. She stretched herself into the shape of an arrow and shot herself across the river, emerging on the other side to see the three guards racing across the bridge towards her, cursing loudly.

She rejoined the road and broke into a loping run, her short light-brown hair bobbing up and down. She could feel her ragged boots begin to show signs of their poor manufacture. The seams were beginning to split, and the guards were closing. _What I wouldn't do for a pair of those guard's fur boots_, she thought. She smiled as she ran. Maybe there was something she could do about that.

She kept running. The guards kept cursing. Ahead on her right was a small dirt path diverging off from the road. She knew where it led. She was a Forsworn, she knew the Reach like no other. Followed to its natural end the path would lead across a bridge and to the orcish fortress of Dushnikh Yal. But Joslyn had other plans.

She nimbly turned the corner down onto the path, the curses and heavy breathing from the guards behind her getting louder. Her one advantage was movement; with their armour, the guards would be slowed down considerably. Almost as soon as she turned the corner, she moved right again, ducking behind a jutting wall of rock. _Oldest trick in the book._

She found exactly what she needed: a thick branch almost as tall as she was. She didn't have to wait very long to use it. The first guard came panting past in a matter of seconds, the second almost scraping on the first's heels. Luckily for Joslyn, the third came after a short gap. She reared up behind him and smashed the branch into his right arm. He went down, crying out and dropping her sword. Joslyn scrambled for it, knowing she had mere seconds before the other guards turned and came back.

The hilt felt good in her hands. Too long since she'd held a proper weapon. Even if it was low-grade steel and spotted with rust. _Time to end this_. She buried the blade in the guard's chest. She looked up and saw the other two racing back down the path towards her. As they approached, they slowed, stepping away from each other so as to come at her from a wide angle.

_Unimaginative guards, always with their cautious approach_. She sprang forward at the guard on the left, feinting at his shield then slicing from the left and hacking into his right arm. He yelled and dropped his sword. She leapt away, knowing that the second guard would be coming at her. She wasn't fast enough. His sword bit into her unprotected side, and she roared. She swung wide and wildly, burying her sword into the second guard's neck. She let go of the hilt and wrenched the other sword from her side, and advanced on the only remaining guard, his shield raised, cradling his wounded arm.

"What a pathetic plan," she told him, wincing at the pain from her side. "You should've left me to rot in the Mine." She advanced on him, smashing the sword into his shield furiously, creating a huge dent. She repeated the action, forcing him back. "Now none of you are safe," she finished, delivering a blow so powerful it knocked him to the ground. On impact he lowered his shield just a little. It was enough. Joslyn's blade found his throat. _Finally._

She dropped the sword as soon as the guard breathed his last, crumpling to the dirt, clutching her wound. She peeled aside the sticky clothes to get a good look at it. _Hurts like a stampeding mammoth, but nothing that can't be patched up_. She moved as fast as she was able, which wasn't very.

She pulled off her own ragged boots, testing the fur boots of the guards. The first pair was too big for her, but the second, she decided, would be serviceable. The fur gauntlets were quicker, the first pair fitted her. She then had a decision to make. To face the harsh climate of the Reach with just her ragged robes for clothing, or to take the armour of the guards who had tried to kill her. The night wind whistled down the path, and Joslyn made her decision. She tore off her robe and used it as a makeshift bandage for her wound. Then, she stripped one of the guards and donned his armour, gritting her teeth all the while. She left the helmet, and set off for the nearest old Forsworn hideout: Hag Rock Redoubt, the largest and most impenetrable of all the camps the Forsworn used to claim as their own.

* * *

Joslyn had expected the Redoubt to be overrun with bandits, but the entire camp stood empty. Bones picked clean by scavenging animals littered the place, tents had collapsed under weight of rain and snow. She picked her way through the remnants in the moonlight, searching for any sign of life. She wanted to be sure before she settled down that there would be no one and nothing to give her a surprise.

The immediate area of the camp was empty. Scrounging around, she found some Blisterwort and the cold leftovers of a half-cooked skeever hide. She folded them together and downed the pair of ingredients, wincing at the foul taste. But she kept it down, and felt their healing properties work together and the pain in her wound lessen. She found a bedroll and collapsed on it, not caring for her filthy condition.

It took Joslyn most of the next day to methodically search the Redoubt and the tower that stood over it, Dead Crone Rock. Not a soul resided within. No Forsworn, no hagravens. Joslyn shrugged off the pillaged guard's armour and donned some proper Forsworn armour. She felt much better after that, even if it was just her on her own. There were more than enough weapons lying around for her needs. She equipped a war axe and a sword, her preferred fighting combination. There was a bow too, which she used to hunt for meat.

* * *

Joslyn worked on her own, turning the Redoubt into a serviceable camp again. When she was finished, it could have held a hundred Forsworn very comfortably. The sun rose, set, and she worked on. The month came to an end. The year two hundred and six of the fourth era began. In one of the first days of that year, Joslyn espied two figures approaching the camp.

She scrambled for her bow and sought the high ground, ready to fill them with arrows. Realistically, she doubted she could take down both of them before they got to her. _Then they'll find an axe in their skulls_. As the figures came closer, she saw they were both unarmed, dressed in the same ragged robes she'd worn in the Mine. They halted, seeing her above them.

Her eyebrows shot up. It was Astien and Varnand, the two Reachmen who'd been in the Mine with her. Imprisoned on false charges of Forsworn conspiracy. The pair looked at each other, each trying to convince the other to speak. Eventually, Varnand did.

"We want to join you!" he called up. "The Forsworn. Markarth won't have us anymore."

Joslyn lowered her bow. "Then get up here!" she yelled to them. _Recruits!_ Of course there were more, the Forsworn's cause was glorious and just. And there would be more, there had to be. Sympathetic and disillusioned, she would find them. There would have to be more Forsworn, scattered around their old hideouts, just waiting for a leader to emerge. She would find them. _The Forsworn live!_


	2. Rebirth in the Reach

Joslyn did a lot of work in the first half of that year. She knew that the year two hundred and six of the fourth era would be remembered as the year the Forsworn were reborn. But at the beginning of the year she had only two under her command: Astien and Varnand.

The problem was that neither of them were very good fighters. In fact, they were not very good at anything, much to Joslyn's frustration. _How am I supposed to retake the Reach with just a couple of raw recruits?_ she thought.

And so she trained them, in the reforged camp of Hag Rock Redoubt. Under sun and moons she passed on knowledge she had learnt from all her hard years as a Forsworn. She destroyed the soft city-people that they were and brought out the tough men from within. They spent weeks engaged in mock-fights, peppering targets with arrows, hunting the wildlife, crafting makeshift poultices. They lived off the land, and Joslyn relished every moment. She maintained an outward displeasure, however, so as to keep Astien and Varnand on their toes. So as to keep their respect.

_A leader needs to be feared_. And so they trained. The month of Rain's Hand had begun when Joslyn made the decision to venture out into the Reach. There had to be others, she reasoned, other members of the Forsworn that had survived the Dragonborn's purges, holding out in remote hides and caves. She planned a systematic route, a scouring of all the Forsworn hides she knew of. Equipping themselves in Forsworn armour, they set out, remaining in the furthest wilds, staying unseen. _We will announce our return when we have more numbers_.

* * *

Joslyn flagged their first stop as Lost Valley Redoubt, an immense ruin to the east that had once been home to dozens of Forsworn. Joslyn took her two followers a steep, alternative way there, scrambling up and over rocks to reach Cradle Stone Tower. A small tower and, as it turned out, an empty one. Joslyn remembered when it had used to be a lair for Hagravens. She mentioned as much to her followers.

"Do you think we'll find any Hagravens at all?" asked Varnand.

"I heard they were all dead," added Astien.

_The Dragonborn was nothing if not thorough. I doubt a single Hagraven still walks the Reach. _But Joslyn did not express her concerns to the others.

"If there are any, we'll find them," she said. They headed across to Bard's Leap Summit, the peak above the Redoubt. It was deserted, the only occupants bones and a pair of wolves that slinked away when the Forsworn approached. Joslyn walked carefully out onto the stone bridge that extended out over the waterfall. Leaning out over the huge drop, she double-checked behind her to make sure that her followers weren't close enough to push her off. _Can't trust anyone_.

Her view of Lost Valley Redoubt was clear. The Redoubt was also clear of any Forsworn. Their old animal skulls and totems had been torn down. It was obvious from such a height that the Redoubt had been occupied by a large gang of bandits. Joslyn spat off the platform, the projectile arcing and falling, lost in the churning waters at the base of the falls.

She turned back, finding Astien and Varnand hanging back, not willing to venture onto the thin bridge.

"Too many," she said.

"We aren't going to kick them out?" asked Astien.

She shook her head. "We'll be back in force later." _But that's not good enough_. "Build a fire," she said. "Make me a torch, and some fire arrows." She remained on the lookout, her followers scurrying to obey her orders. She doubted the bandits would see the smoke. _Useless undisciplined fools_.

It didn't take very long for Astien and Varnand to get her what she wanted, but she scowled at them anyway. Varnand edged out onto the bridge, a torch in one hand and a fistful of arrows in the other, their points wrapped in rags. Astien remained with the fire, axe in hand, clearly nervous.

Joslyn drew her bow, fitting the first arrow to it. Varnand held out the torch and she dragged the point through the flame. She turned, quickly drawing back and firing down into the Redoubt, aiming for the bandits' tents. She repeated the action half a dozen times. Soon fires were blazing and spreading across the Redoubt, bandits screaming and running in circles, frantically trying to regain order and save themselves. Joslyn laughed, and returned to solid ground.

_Leave the idiots scrambling as their skin burns. We shall return_.

* * *

They headed north, Joslyn satisfied with her display of violence. Varnand had taken to treating her with something resembling awe. Astien was not there yet, but she was sure he'd come around. If there was anyone who could lead the Forsworn to victory, it was her.

They gave Fort Sungard a wide berth. It had been claimed by the Imperial Legion during the Civil War, an age ago in Joslyn's memory. They went on, to Serpent's Bluff Redoubt. Arriving in the early hours of the morning, they discovered the exterior of the camp to be a smouldered ruin, long ago razed to the ground. _No doubt another victim of the Dragonborn_.

Descending into the ruins, Astien providing light, Varnand with bow drawn, Joslyn with axe in hand, they searched the rooms. In a storeroom next to the main hall, huddled in a gap between a broken shelf and the stone wall, was a small woman. They almost passed the whole room by, but Joslyn heard muffled breathing.

The woman's eyes went wide upon seeing them. Small, black eyes sunken in a dirty face, framed by wild blonde hair. Dressed in rags of Forsworn armour.

"You're dead," she murmured. "You're all supposed to be dead."

Joslyn signalled to Varnand to lower his bow. She edged towards the woman, returning her axe to her belt to show she meant no harm. The woman shifted, and Joslyn got a look at her chest. There was a hole, red scars standing out against pale skin. _Briarheart. _Better than Joslyn could ever have hoped.

"Not dead," said Joslyn. "The Forsworn are returning, under my leadership."

"Not dead?" questioned the woman. She scrambled to her feet. Bare feet. "It's been so long… I thought the cause was lost."

Joslyn allowed herself a small smile. "Not lost," she said. "We're back."

* * *

The woman's name was Briette, and it took Joslyn much prodding to get even that much out of her. It seemed she'd been in the ruins since the Dragonborn had purged the place, living off skeevers and worse, sometimes sneaking out to steal from the people of Rorikstead. Her preferred magic was fire, in large quantities. Joslyn had to restrain her several times from attracting attention to their position as they continued their journey. Not the sanest Forsworn she'd ever meant, but certainly not the opposite either. Their cause had always attracted the unhinged. Still, she was glad to have magic on her side, even if it was possibly destructively unreliable. Joslyn knew all she had to do was point Briette in the right direction, then sit back and watch the flames rise.

Taking note of the Old Hroldan Inn as an easy target for later, Joslyn found the Karthspire overtaken by the Blades, their numbers greatly expanded. They had bad luck of a different variety at the next locations. Red Eagle Redoubt, Bleakwind Bluff, Rebel's Cairn, Sundered Towers. Most were empty, but the last had been full of bandits that they'd been forced to run from. Joslyn had ground her teeth and sworn revenge. She was going to need a list, she realised, to keep track of those who were going to receive her wrath.

They headed further north. Briette told them of the rumours she'd overheard in Rorikstead, of vampires and ancient orders reforming. Of what the Elder Scrolls foretold. Joslyn filed it all away for later. Anything that could be turned against the Nords was of interest to her.

None of them expected to have any luck at Broken Tower Redoubt. Of all the old Forsworn hideouts, Joslyn reasoned that it would be the most likely to be overrun with bandits, due to its proximity to a main road. She was right. But she would not suffer another defeat.

She knew the bandits would be watching the road. The Forsworn came at them from over the mountain, climbing the rocky crags. Astien complained most of the way up until Briette almost launched a fireball into his face.

Instead of the traditional all-out Forsworn rush, Joslyn made her followers hang back. _The future of the Forsworn is not in raging battles, but in a careful approach_. They peppered the bandits with arrows and fire until they all came to them. With the high-ground advantage and using the doors as readymade chokepoints, it wasn't long before the bandit chief fell before them. Briette's magicka reserves were not deep, but her spells were potent while they lasted; huge waving walls of flame that encircled enemies, zooming projectiles that exploded into inferno on impact. Her magic was raw and untrained, just how Joslyn liked it.

They walked through the fort afterwards, restoring old Forsworn icons to their rightful places. But they knew they didn't have the numbers to hold it, and so continued on. At Dragon Bridge Overlook their luck held. It was night when they approached, and they'd seen the light of a fire from a long distance away. It had never been a very large camp, but it had been reduced to a single tent with a single occupant.

That occupant was naked from the waist up, and his muscles bulged. A rippling burn scar took up most of his right side. He unfolded himself and rose as they approached, grasping a makeshift mace in his huge hand. He was moving fluidly into a battle-stance when he noticed their armour. A wide grin emerged from his dark red beard.

"Knew some would keep the faith," he boomed, his voice deep and echoing. "Name's Gerrick." He lowered his mace and extended his hand to Joslyn, who was pleased that he picked her out as the leader. They shook, Joslyn pushing back against Gerrick's crushing grip.

"Are there others?" asked Joslyn.

Gerrick's face darkened. "Aye," he said. "Cravens. You don't want nothing to do with them."

Joslyn angled her neck and looked him dead in the eyes, struggling to stand up to such a physically powerful figure. _I am not weak. I am not weak. _"If we're going to retake the Reach," she said. "We'll need all the help we can get."

Gerrick just grunted.

"Where are these cravens you speak of?" pushed Joslyn.

Gerrick spat. "Over the river," he said. "In Bruca's Leap Redoubt." He scratched his beard. "I will follow you," he added, "but do not be surprised if they will not do you the same honour."

Joslyn turned away, positioning in her mind the location of the Redoubt. She didn't ask Gerrick how many, she had no wish to appear anxious or over-eager. _They will do me whatever honour I please_.

* * *

The now five-strong group made the river crossing to Bruca's Leap Redoubt that night. Gerrick filled them in on the way. Somehow, it had been a cave the Dragonborn had not discovered. Or perhaps one that he'd purged and moved on from. Either way, a group of Forsworn had fled there, keeping to themselves, only venturing out to gather food. They were led by a man called Dreanan, who Gerrick was unable to mention without spitting.

Entering the small cave with Gerrick and Varnand both carrying torches, they startled the inhabitants into waking. The space seemed to be made even smaller by Gerrick's bulk. The sleepers arose with shouts of surprise, Kara counting them as they did. _Two, three, five, six. More than double our current force!_

They scrambled for weapons, those wakened men and women, halting when they saw how their wakers were garbed. Joslyn decided she had to have the first word.

"You useless bastards didn't even post a watch?" she asked them. The six looked sheepishly at each other, each wanting someone else to talk. Eventually, a skinny man with a missing left hand did. The look of disgust on Gerrick's face told her that this was Dreanan. _A miserable excuse for a leader if there ever was one._

"Nobody bothers us here," he said, sniffing heavily. "We keep to ourselves, stay out of trouble, and stay alive." The other cave-dwellers nodded, pale and thin, though some were unable to shift their gaze from the weapons of Joslyn and her followers.

Joslyn saw immediately what she would have to do. If she wanted to expand her group, Dreanan had to go. _Fear is vital. I must be feared and respected by my own before the rest of the Reach will do the same._

Joslyn stepped casually forward, drawing her axe and burying it in Dreanan's head. None of her own followers moved, but she could tell Briette had a spell on hold. The cave-dwellers jumped away from Dreanan to avoid the spray of blood, cringing from Joslyn's violence.

"Now," she announced, seeing a smile on Gerrick's face out of the corner of her eye, "the Forsworn are returned. Under my leadership. You're either with me, or…" – she gestured at Dreanan's body in its growing pool of blood – "you're with him."

* * *

Ten strong, the Forsworn left the cave. Joslyn took them west, to the sight of their greatest defeat: Druadach Redoubt. The bones of the fallen crunched under their feet as they ascended to the hideout. Three years on, the remnants of that battle still littered the landscape. Inside the cave, torches lit, Joslyn explained her plan to the ragged new recruits.

"We head south," she said, "to Blind Cliff Cave." She looked over her now doubled force. "Do any of you know of any other Forsworn still living?"

There was a chorus of head-shaking. _Useless bastards. Fine_. Blind Cliff Cave was her last hope. Kolskeggr Mine she knew had been taken over by the Silver-Bloods, and she'd already searched the rest of the Reach. If there were any more Forsworn left, they'd be in Blind Cliff Cave.

* * *

The trip was not an easy one. Joslyn was forced to lead her group over harsh terrain to avoid being spotted, an endeavour made twice as difficult due to their increased numbers. What should have taken them a day took three. They waited until nightfall before entering Blind Cliff Cave, due to its location on a main road.

They moved through the Cave and up into the towers, finding nothing. Joslyn noticed that her new recruits still jumped at the slightest noise, and that she still referred to them collectively as 'the cravens' in her mind, not even bothering to learn their names. She only put her trust in Briette and Gerrick. Astien she was less sure about, she had noticed him talking in hushed tones with Varnand and the cravens, whispering about what she knew not. But he always ceased when she caught his eye.

The Cave was empty. Joslyn remembered it in the old days, filled with Hagravens creating Briarhearts like there was no tomorrow. _But tomorrow came, with the Dragonborn as its wrathful destroyer._

Trying not to show a disappointed face to her followers, Joslyn led them out of the Cave into the moonlit night. The cravens had scavenged weapons and armour from within, but handled them poorly. She stood staring at the rippling patterns Masser and Secunda cast upon the river. Gerrick approached her, moving silently to her right side. _A better man for my right hand I'll never find._

"Where to now, boss?" he asked quietly, not letting the others hear.

She ran through some Reach landmarks in her mind. A ten-strong force. Not enough to take a major fort or town. But maybe enough to take an isolated inn. _Now there's a morale boost waiting to happen. _Joslyn grinned.

"We're headed to Old Hroldan," she said.

* * *

The sun was on its way towards its zenith when the Forsworn descended on the Old Hroldan Inn. Joslyn herself took the shot from the hill that killed the lone man chopping wood outside the Inn. She signalled her followers with a roar, and they charged. Nobody came out to face them.

Joslyn had orchestrated Astien to be in the lead, so it was him that kicked down the door and got an arrow in the throat instead of someone she actually valued. Joslyn ordered Briette to launch her magic and the small woman did so, a rolling fireball cascading through the door opening. A high-pitched scream emerged on impact. In its wake followed Joslyn, Gerrick and Varnand, the cravens behind. _Living up to their name._

The fireball had only done half the work. A child and a member of the Blades lay dead, incinerated by the flames. Joslyn had been hoping there would be no trouble from them, but the Inn was the closest to the Blades' base by far, it was only natural that they would frequent it.

A single Blades member remained, standing in front of the bar. A huge Redguard, Joslyn's sword clattered harmlessly off his shield. His movements were hazy, and she realised he was drunk. She lured him back and Gerrick shouldered in, his mace breaking through the Blade's skull. Varnand hurdled the bar. A scream followed as he struck down the bartender.

Joslyn was unable to keep from smiling. _Only one casualty!_ She would've killed Astien herself eventually; the Blade had merely saved her the trouble. The cravens were edging in, too late to have any effect on the fight. Joslyn climbed onto the bar, addressing her followers.

"Forsworn!" she bellowed. "This is but our first victory!" There was chorus of yells in reply. "Tomorrow, we will plan and we will fight. But for now," – here she threw her arms wide – "drinks are on the house!"


	3. Assault on Dushnikh Yal

_~A/N: This is it, the last chapter. I did say it would be short. I think it's pretty clear that I have a low opinion of the Forsworn, but I wanted to explore their perspective nonetheless. Also, crossover character alert, for those who have read my other stories. It's been an enjoyable and interesting experience writing Joslyn for this short time, thanks for reading.~_

* * *

Joslyn woke with a hammering head and the taste of bile in her throat. Light was streaming in through the open door of the Old Hroldan Inn. Groaning and stumbling to her feet, she made for the doorway, fighting the thudding on the back of her head and shielding her eyes from the sun, which was almost past its highest point.

The rest of the Forsworn were spread out around the inn, all completely passed out. _Undisciplined fools. And I am no better_. She had let them indulge in the inn's supply of alcohol, the newly successful conquerors consuming huge quantities of mead, ale, and wine. But they had achieved their first victory. _The first of many_.

She had decided the location of their next attack. An inn was nothing. A couple of common bandits with a sharp rock could take over an inn. No, Joslyn would truly announce the return of the Forsworn with an assault on the orcish stronghold of Dushnikh Yal.

She looked around at her collapsed tribe, spilled drinks and spilled guts covering the floor. _A pathetic display_. The next visitors to Old Hroldan would find themselves with quite a mess on their hands. Joslyn decided the attack could wait until evening.

* * *

"It's about time someone took the orcs down a peg," said Gerrick when Joslyn proposed her plan to the group. "Ugly pig-bastards been getting too big for their boots."

The rest seemed to agree, throwing out casual insults against the pariah-folk. Varnand explained that the orcs had been experiencing somewhat of a resurgence in their fortunes, their profits growing, their defences becoming more formidable. Joslyn was undeterred. _No green-skinned bastard is going to stop the Forsworn._

* * *

With the evening encroaching on their little patch of Nirn, Joslyn lead them around the inn and to the south, finding the path and following it to the bridge. The night was cold, and a chilling wind teased them as they went. At the shrine of Dibella that lay on the other side of the bridge, Joslyn killed the lone worshipper, an emaciated Breton who met his death calmly and without a word. Some of the cravens began muttering about sacrilege, but she shot them down with a glare. _The Forsworn are beholden to no God_.

They trekked up a thin path that diverged up the hill, narrow and steep. It wasn't long before Joslyn took them to the right, up an even steeper route that had many puffing and panting, and everyone scrambling on all fours. She was tempted to deliver a kick to one of the cravens and send them tumbling down. _Not now. We need the numbers_.

Briette reached the top first, the young Briarheart quicker on her feet than all the others. Joslyn waved her on, unable to speak between harsh breaths. She lead the rest up and up, to a point where they could see a huge vista of the Reach spread out before them. _It shall return to its rightful owners soon enough._

They spent a moment marvelling at the gathering aurora.

"Come on," said Joslyn eventually. "Can't stay here all night, we got orcs to kill."

* * *

Over the crest of the hill was a Nordic burial mound, its stone roof long ago fallen inwards, the small circular room open to the elements. She descended the spiral stair and rummaged through the chest at the base. _Nothing_. But on the table was an orcish dagger, which she tucked into her belt. It would be fitting to kill some orcs with their own weapons. She ascended out of the barrow, thankful for the lack of draugr. She didn't fancy the group's chances against the undead.

The ground had flattened out, making their going easier, lessening the grumbling of the cravens. Joslyn was glad for the company of Gerrick. His bulk on their side gave her more confidence. She'd put the cravens in the vanguard during the attack on the stronghold; let them soak up the orcs' counterattack. Gerrick was too valuable to waste in such an endeavour. _A potential second-in-command, maybe._

Between rugged stones and twisted trees they went, silent in the moonlight. Soon the dwemer ruin of Arkngthamz loomed before them with its rising staircase and ancient towers. They gave it a wide berth, turning right onto the path towards Dushnikh Yal.

* * *

The hour was not late, not enough for Joslyn's liking. She cursed herself for impatience, for not waiting until after midnight, when the orcs would be asleep in their longhouse and the stronghold would be easier to take. But she couldn't back down, not with their goal right there in front of them. _A leader cannot show reluctance. A leader cannot back down._

A female orc in steel plate armour was on the closest guard tower.

"Halt!" she shouted.

Joslyn turned to Briette, who was way ahead of her, already preparing a spell. The messy fireball was loosed, spinning through the air towards the orc guard. She leapt from the tower just before the explosion caught it. A range of shouts came from within the stronghold, the flaming tower lighting up the night. Joslyn cursed again. Battle would soon be joined.

"Briette, get the gate!" yelled Joslyn, drawing her axe and turning to the others. There was another explosion as the Briarheart followed her orders. "Now," she addressed her followers, "we announce our return to Skyrim! Now, we begin to take back what is rightfully ours! Now, we begin our conquest anew!"

There was roar of approval from the rest of the Forsworn and she turned to lead them towards the gate, deliberately running slower than the others so that they overtook her and reached the charred gateway before her. Briette had standing orders to hang back and was doing so, breathing heavily and waiting for her magicka to regenerate.

A large male orc was the first out, dressed in the spiked armour of his people but carrying a shield of the Imperial Legion. He wielded a vicious war axe and cut down two of the cravens in a matter of seconds. The orc was soon joined by another, even larger orc also in orcish armour, this one wielding a long warhammer, his face painted with orange stripes. Joslyn marked him as the chief. A chief who crushed Varnand's head like a grape with his hammer.

She yelled and charged into the fight, more orcs joining the fray. Only six Forsworn remained alive. Another craven fell to the chief orc, and Gerrick charged to meet him, the Forsworn's makeshift hammer going up against the orc's master-crafted weapon.

Joslyn found herself filled with cold fear as she faced her first opponent, the guard who had leapt from the tower, armed with a war axe of considerably better make than her own. Joslyn dodged the first few strikes with nimble agility, but felt the metal bite into her side too soon, in the same place as the Markarth guard had struck during her escape. She yelled and returned the blow, burying her axe in the orc's neck and leaving it there. She gasped for breath and drew her sword, her bloody hand fumbling on the grip.

Looking around her, she saw the remaining cravens consumed by a lightning spell, smoke rising from their collapsing bodies. Her fear grew deeper and colder. _Orcs aren't supposed to have mages! Crones, but no mages!_

She saw Gerrick stagger and fall under the assault of the chief, heard his bones crunch as the orcish warhammer struck him again and again. Behind Joslyn, Briette frantically tried to get together enough magicka for another fireball, looting her pack for something restorative. The orcs stopped, standing panting with their weapons covered in blood. Only Joslyn and Briette remained.

From within the stronghold strode an orc in fine hooded robes, a grey beard extending from his chin. No doubt, this was the figure who had cast the lightning spell. Briette recognised the threat he presented and, downing a potion, aimed her fireball directly at him. He summoned a ward with practiced speed, protecting the entire tribe from the blast, the impact and heat rebounding and sending Joslyn sprawling, her sword gone from her hand.

The orc mage sent a flurry of ice spikes towards the Briarheart, impaling her half a dozen times. Briette fell, dead from the multiple punctures before she hit the dirt. The mage seemed unconcerned with the threat that Joslyn presented, crouching down to examine the body of the orc she'd killed. The orc sighed deeply, looking around at the rest of the tribe.

"Anyone else hurt?" he asked. Nobody was. Only one orc killed, for eight Forsworn. Joslyn got to her feet. _It will not end like this! There will be others, I will return. Better Forsworn, I'll train them, I'll—_

The mage sent a green burst of light towards her and she found herself unable to move. _Paralysis! A coward's move, to disable the opponent!_

The mage approached her, watching her struggle to break the constraints of the spell and failing. He looked down at her prone form, the other orcs hanging back. She'd thought the big orc had been the chief, but the tribe respected this one…

"The Dragonborn said he killed all the Forsworn," the mage said. "It seems he missed a few."

Joslyn's face screwed up, managing to splutter weakly through the paralysis spell in a burst of rage. _The Dragonborn will wish for an age of torment in Oblivion after I'm through with him! He will suffer as I have suffered!_

The mage read the fury in her eyes. He looked away, staring up at the night sky tiredly. "I imagine this really is the last of you," he said. "And you thought the orcs would be an easy target." He looked back at said orcs, a pair of them carrying their dead comrade inside the stronghold, more looting the Forsworn corpses with disappointment. They had little worth taking.

"The orcs are under my protection," said the mage firmly. "Under the orders of Malacath, no harm shall come to them while I live." The mage pulled back his hood and scratched his bare scalp, his features as jutting as all of those of his kind. "The orcs of Skyrim, indeed, the orcs of all Tamriel, are no easy target. They will not be defeated by anyone, and certainly not a piecemeal force such as yours."

Joslyn cursed the mage, feeling the bonds of the spell weakening, attempting to scramble backwards away from him. She succeeded momentarily, until she found herself hitting her head on the rock wall opposite the stronghold gate.

_No! There is still an escape, there is always an escape! I will return, I will destroy this foul orc and all the others!_

The orc mage summoned a shimmering bound sword into his hand, the blade flickering as the moonlight danced upon it. It was an imitation of a finely-made ebony longsword, exquisite in its replication of detail. He reversed his grip, looking surprisingly competent with a blade in hand. He raised the bound sword up, staring down at Joslyn with unquestionable finality.

"When you see your friends in Oblivion," he said, "tell them this: there will never be any place for your kind in Skyrim. This land belongs to all kinds but yours."

"This land belongs to the Forsworn!" spat Joslyn, finding her voice, her heart threatening to beat out of her chest. She remembered the orcish dagger she'd found in the barrow, and struggled to draw it, her fingers unable to grip, her brain unable to focus.

"No," replied the mage. "Your kind is hereby expunged from Mundus. Any more who arise will meet the same fate."

The sword came down, into her chest. She felt a ghastly pain and let loose a scream, seeing the world around fade into shimmering white points of light. Darkness overtook them and she sank back. _Not yet. There is so much left to do!_ Her eyes eased shut and blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. The mage looked at her with disgust and dismissed the bound weapon. He turned back to the stronghold, already composing something to say of the body of the fallen orc.

So passed Joslyn Elbert, the last Forsworn.


End file.
